Categories
Pics with verse Storyteller

When Time Falls

When Time Falls

When the leaves cover the sidewalk, and floats down onto the benches, and onto the hoods and roofs of cars, and everywhere the world is covered with brighter earth tones that shifts with the wind, the cool wind that tickle your skin as the air grows colder by the hour. And you tremble a little, and sniffs the cool air, you realize it is the beginning of the season when time falls.

Categories
Cool Runnings

12th Installment La Diablesse

Round mid afternoon I took a long cold shower, got dressed and went out to the small shed at the side of me house opened the wooden door and went inside. Covered under a large tarpaulin was my Yamaha bike, I pulled the cover off and dust flew into the air causing sneeze, the metallic black body glittered as the sun came through the doorway and bounced off of it, man, I loved this bike I spent many of days straddled on the leather seat riding round the island. I climbed onto the soft seat pushed down on the crank and maneuvered the machine to the front yard rode through the gate stopping as two cars drove by, damn drivers acted like they did not see me. Carefully I pulled in behind them and rode down the graveled road small stones popping out from under the wheels as I sped up.

There were lots of cars on the road as workers rushed to get home, Saturday meant they only had to work half day and people wanted to get home to start the weekend partying. Despite the narrow streets, the large potholes and the pedestrians, the drivers were extremely patient honking their horns to greet each other. Most cars on the island back then were British made. Morrises and those bloody annoying mini cars would zoom by like mice running from a cat. Calypso music blared from the mini busses as they competed to pick up as many passengers as they could.

The traffic thinned out as I got further into the county side, the roads narrowed out even more making it impossible for two cars to go by at the same time, sharp turns made it seem like I had turned round and was going back the way I came. I had ridden this road many of times when I visited me grandmother, she had moved back to the plantation after me Grandfather died to live the rest of she life in peace on the land she family owned. There were always something spiritual bout these country roads, I mean; the air was filled with the scent of bananas, spices, sugar cane and tropical mud, I slowed down and began to appreciate the scenery round me.

On the left side of the road I looked down on a mountainside of banana trees rustling in the wind, despite the sharp decline they stood in perfect rows like soldiers on parade day, the space between the trees left enough room for the farmers to go through and pick the large bunches of bananas, man, I tell you what, me mouth started to water right away just thinking bout them ripe bananas. There was a break in the uniformity as the wind swept through the hillside causing the big green leaves to whip round. I saw small drains in the muddy surface a result of the heavy rains earlier in the month. Some of the trees sagged to the side and the farmer used sticks to prop them up, voices of the farm workers echoed in the valley as they made their way through the field cutting down the bananas.

On the other side of the road Nutmeg and Cocoa trees went up the hillside as far as the eyes could see the spicy aromor lingered in the air leaving a sweet taste in me mouth. The Cocoa pods that hung off the trees made me think of me mother, she grew up on great Grandmother’s plantation and always had stories bout helping work in the fields, she used to try to get me to work there on the weekends but manual labour and I was no friend. There was some mist at the top of the hill creating a bluish tint against the green leaves, the cool late afternoon breeze brushed off me face causing me shirt to flutter like a homemade kite in an Easter wind.

I heard a vehicle backfire so I turned me attention back to the road, I got as close to the edge of the asphalt as I could, but that still did not prepare me for the police land rover that came round the corner, them bastards must have been going bout eighty miles an hour or something because the five or so policemen inside were hanging on for they lives. The rover was not in the best shape at all, I mean, the bloody thing was tilted to the right and the wheels were so askew I could tell the driver was having a hard time controlling the deathtrap. They must have seen the look on me face because I heard them laugh as the heap of metal went round the corner behind me, ignorant Bobbies, somebody should arrest them fools. I pulled onto the road and even though I was shaking a little continued on.

I came up on some houses so I slowed down, there were some boys playing cricket in the middle of the road they had stopped the game and were arguing over a bad call, one of the boys holding the bat and another one was trying to take it away from him. They were so engrossed in their argument they did not hear the roar of me bike as it came up on them, I was about three feet from them before they scampered out of the way and onto the embankment at the side of the road. They shouted at me as I went by, bloody little hooligans, good thing they were not me pupils because I would have given them a good lashing. I looked over me shoulder and saw that they had resumed they argument, the two boys were now rolling round on the road each clinching to the bat screaming at each other in that country boy slang, the other boys were trying their best to get them apart.

I turned me attention back to the street just in time to see a shadow in front of me, I squeezed hard on the breaks me back wheel dancing wildly on the uneven road and it took all me skills to get the machine under control. I came to an abrupt stop almost falling over the damn handlebar, an old man sat majestically on he donkey like a Victorian king on he favorite mare, he shirt and pants were stained with the juices from the bananas he worked with all day, he stared at me no expression on he wrinkled face at all. Neither of us said a word, we just sat there looking at each other he eyes squinted, it was a stalemate and by the expression on he face I knew he was not about to give ground.
“Do you know where Alison live?” I asked not that I thought he would know but mainly to break the uneasy silence. He shook he head from side to side puzzled at me question. The hum of the bike echoed through the valley, a flock of birds swooped down off the mountain and flew over we head. He glanced up to the hills then looked back at me then he lifted a mud caked hand and used it to block the sun. He weather beaten face was still expressionless, but yet, you could see the years of experience running through every line on he face. I knew a lot of men like him, well seasoned with hard work life a constant struggle to keep the family farm running, poor fella, the slow but eminent economic change was destroying he livelihood. He raised he hand and pointed, I did not say anything I just maneuvered me bike round him and rode off.

The potholes in the road were the biggest I had ever seen in me whole damn life, bloody government, would it have killed them to fix the stinking roads? The bike bounced round as I tried me best to maneuver through the maze.

I rode for bout five miles passing small wooden houses on the way, they all had concrete steps leading to colourful doors they verandas almost as big as the houses themselves. On most of them, men sat in Bamboo chairs round tables playing dominoes or drinking sugar cane rum, arguments would erupt over whose turn it was next, they voices carrying through the hills and across the rolling plantations.

The road abruptly changed into a mud path and I almost lost control of the damn bike. The sun disappeared behind the large mango trees that lined the path, damn it, now I had to ride through large holes filled with water and me shoes was now soaked down to me frigging socks. The late afternoon sun was turning into a dull yellow orange causing visibility to be almost impossible, soon darkness engulfed the path as the trees and bushes became thicker and I had to turn on me headlight. Dogs barked up ahead and I was concerned because I was afraid of them infernal animals.

As I rounded a corner and came upon three houses that sat on a hillside they formed a perfect triangle against the dark green backdrop. The sun seeped through the trees giving me better lighting, the two houses higher up on the hill were painted in conservative colours of gray with red and green roofs. There were no fences round them, but they boundaries were distinct where grass gave way to shrubbery at the edge of the yards, yard fowls clucked as they fought for scraps of food, pigs squealed as they moved round in they pens. I turned off the bike and sat there looking at the houses the silence was real eerie man, where the hell was all the people?

Categories
Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Ladies of the Night From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant

There were lots of things about The Melting Pot City that fascinated me. For instance, the prostitutes. I had never seen that before so I took an interest in how and what they did. No, I did not indulge in their services. I am a people watcher. That is how I am able to write this fantastic book, right? We lived on Eastern Parkway between Utica and Rochester Avenues. Eastern Parkway was the biggest and busiest street I have ever lived on. I used to sit at the window and watch them, wondering why in the richest country in the world the women had to resort to this. They walked up and down the avenue in short dresses, uncomfortable high heel shoes and skirts so short you could see the beginning of their butt cheeks. Scores of cars with lonely men came and went. I mean, you should see them, looking around like cartoon characters, gripping their steering wheels, their eyes wide with lustful anticipation. I felt so sorry for these women. I wondered what they thought their life would be like. Were they victims of society or were they victims of cultural circumstances?

The most disturbing thing about this was that there was a pregnant woman out there. Car after car would pick her up. None of the men seemed concerned with her condition. I often wondered what sick bastard would take advantage of someone like that.  Our landlady would scream at them, calling them the worst names, as if they needed to feel any more degraded then they already were. My ex-wife and I felt compassion for them, so we let them sit on our car. They promised as long as they were there, no one would mess with it. That summer, with the constant complaints from the landlady, the cops chased them off. That very night, every car in a four block radius was broken into. Is it not sad how society, indoctrinated by judgmental ideologies, makes the people believe that these women were less than human? Truth is, their humanity was stripped by the same ideology that claimed to be virtuous. Just look at all the preachers and politicians who partake in the very same debauchery.

Categories
Pics with verse Storyteller

Old time

Old time

Ahhh Lucas Street, me old stomping grounds. Just to your right, that is where Roach me buddy used to live, at the top of that hill, that’s where Roach confronted Vung the blood sucking Ligaroo. Ahh yes, we had fun on this street. You see where that police box is with the policeman in it, well me and Raphie, me brother, we would watch him all day directing traffic, then at nine o’ clock at night, when he got off duty, we would run to the box and direct traffic, boy I tell you, is a lot of time we almost cause accidents. Drivers would curse and threaten to beat we up. We used to get old truck tires and roll them down that hill looking to see where it would end up. I surprised Mommy Charles never found out, cause if she did, we ass was grass. Ahhh yes, good old Lucas street, were we did lots of mischief, and got into little scrapes with bullies.

Categories
Parts Dirty Immigrant Storyteller

Immigration (From the novel I am a Dirty Immigrant)

I loved living in The Melting Pot City but we did not have time to truly enjoy all it had to offer. Life has a way of keeping you occupied. My first encounter with bureaucracy was trying to get my green card. Yes, I am legal. We went to the immigration office early one morning. The line was about two blocks long. I remember the sun peeping through the tall buildings, creating yellow lines on the street and the cars. We got to a counter and the lady wearing a white blouse with a painted on smile handed us a number. She looked exhausted; hell, I would be too if I had to deal with so many different cultures and so many people unable to speak the language clearly. We had to wait some more so I sat there looking at all the different nationalities. That was the most different languages I had heard in one place since all the tourists that came to the island. There were a lot of children in there too, most of them restless. What did they know about all this paperwork? The place seemed like a refugee camp – all these people in a strange place. It seemed so cold. There were not many smiling faces, just people worried about their future. It was not what you see in the movies: people ecstatic about getting into this country. Quite frankly, it was like the DMV, but more frustrating. We were all running from something and this country would offer opportunities we would not have in our own homeland. We were called into an office. Well it was a small cubicle with a light-skinned sister sitting behind a small desk.  I had heard horror stories about these interviews and the questions they asked. God knows I was not really prepared for this. The young woman asked me what college I went to. I told her. She asked me what my ex-wife studied. I don’t remember what I told her. I just know that it was something way different than what she did study. She approved me and we left. I was to get a temporary green card and would have to wait for the permanent one. It was that easy; no questions about what color panties she was wearing, or where she was born, or why I wanted to stay in The Land Of the Golden Streets.  Nothing like the stories I heard about questions they would ask. I guess the lady thought that there was no way this little white woman would marry the giant unless it was real.

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/344979

http://www.amazon.com/am-Dirty-Immigrant-Anderson-Charles-ebook/dp/B00E91DDE6/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1389360644&sr=1-1&keywords=I+am+a+dirty+immigrant